


make a home of me

by olivemartini



Series: A Study in Sherlock [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pining, mycroft's a good brother, season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 04:03:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15064748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivemartini/pseuds/olivemartini
Summary: He could love you back, if you let it.  If you opened yourself up to it.  If you gave it half a chance, looked up from that take out container he got you because he knows you didn't eat and can remember all your orders even though you don't even know his birthday, pause right there in the middle of dinner and look him in the face and say I love you, John Watson, desperately and completely and irrevocably, and I really would like it if you never left- wait, no, stop, bad, delete, delete, delete.





	make a home of me

He finds himself going back to that first night at Angelo's.

The table by the window.  John's shadow backlit against the wall from the streetlights outside.  How Angelo came over to say hi with his normal hustle and bustle, proclaiming to John that  _any friend of Sherlock's is a friend of mine,_ and for once, Sherlock did not have to correct him, because here John was, sitting there with him, a friend.  And because they were friends (or he thought they could be, at the time) Sherlock had decided that it was his job to lead him out of the shadows and back into the light, and even though he had brought them here on the off chance that the killer could be watching them, he mostly just decided to go to dinner so John could eat without thinking about it.

At the time, fresh from the war, that phantom pain still aching, John wasn't remembered to eat.  He wasn't eating, and wasn't sleeping, and it was like even the way he held himself wasn't right, like he was trying to rip the solider right out his skin and couldn't understand why it wasn't working.  Sherlock saw it better than anyone else could, and he wanted to fix it, because that was part of his life, too.  Fixing problems was something he was good at.

They were also there so Sherlock could show off.  Sherlock knows that, knew that back then, because he had deduced John on purpose just to see how he would react and the word  _brilliant_ had fallen from John's lips like it was a breath ( _a prayer, Sherlock would think later, lying on the back counting the rips in the wall paper and soaking in his nicotine_ ) and it had been so long since someone had looked at him like he wasn't something to be afraid of or to be used or seen as a cheap carnival trick that Sherlock just couldn't help it.  It had just been so long since he had had a friend.

Which is why he had panicked, sitting there, listening to John talk about girlfriends and boyfriends and how they were two young men, alone and free of attachments, and thought that it was his own fault, confusing whatever attraction John had to him for friendship, but even this interest was nice, so Sherlock was nice in the way he responded, about being married to his work and how it was nothing against John, already preparing to say that clearly they could still continue to be flat mates, when John cut him off.

"No,"  He said, and as soon as Sherlock heard his voice he knew that he had misunderstood, because John was exasperated, exasperated and just as kind in his response as Sherlock had been trying to be.  "I just meant that it was fine."  His voice is too intense, and for a moment Sherlock cannot figure out why, until he realizes that he is trying to say that even though there are men who would not like to live with a gay flat mate, John was not one of them.  "It's all fine."

And it was, for a while, really, until Sherlock quit being married to his work and started focusing on John, preparing a whole room in his mind palace just for him, throwing open windows to clear the air and cleaning out shelves to give more space, every detail that he could gather being documented, so that when John inevitably decided it was time for him to leave, Sherlock wouldn't have to let go, not really.  It was fine, other than the fact that Sherlock would turn his head to talk to John only to remember that John was out on a date with one of his long string of failed attempts at romance, that he was not here, because John does not belong to him.  

He could have been, maybe.  There were times where Sherlock thought it might happen, but then one of them comes to their senses and draws away, or Sherlock does something to make John angry, or life simply rears its ugly head and they were reminded of why it would not work.  That it was better to keep what they had than let it die on the chance of a fleeting what-if.  

"You love him,"  Mycroft says, and it is not a question.  There never are any questions with Mycroft, only orders and warnings and the insistence that he is doing this for Sherlock's own good, that Sherlock was the one who was in the wrong, that he was ever the wise big brother who was just trying to show that he knew best. "I thought I taught you better than that."

"He loves me, too."  It had taken a long time for Sherlock to be able to be secure enough in their friendship to admit that.  A lot of fights where Sherlock made his violin scream while telling himself that this time John would have decided he had enough, that Sherlock had drove him away for good.  A lot of rules added to the list on the kitchen counter, about no experiments that John does not know about and no sacrificing his health for his case and no talking about things that Sherlock deduced on accident, because John likes the illusion of privacy.  A lot of dinners, and nights spent running down back alleys, and days studying dead bodies, until Sherlock could look at him and know that there would be no end to this.  "Just not in the same way."

( _It could be the same way, if you let it.  If you opened yourself up to it.  If you gave it half a chance, looked up from that take out container he got you because he knows you didn't eat and can remember all your orders even though you don't even know his birthday, pause right there in the middle of dinner and look him in the face and say I love you, John Watson, desperately and completely and irrevocably, and I really would like it if you never left- wait, no, stop, bad, delete, delete, delete._ )

"Is that enough?"  Mycroft wasn't even supposed to be here.  This party was supposed to be for friends only, but John invited him.  Said it would be good for the two of them, to get together when someone wasn't being murdered.  "To only be half-loved?"

 _It's the closest I've ever came,_ Sherlock thinks, and at the moment there's a burst of laughter from the circle around the cheese tray, and John catches his eye, smiles that soft smile that he reserves just for Sherlock, the one that's half fond and half exasperated and a dash of something else, something worried and longing and lost all at once.  

"Enough, Mycroft."  Sherlock does not want to talk about this.  Some things are better off unsaid.  Better off forgotten.  "I know what I'm doing."

He looks like he wants to argue, the two of them watching as John leaves his hand on a woman's shoulder a moment longer than he needed to.  He had sworn that she was just a friend from work, someone who was lonely, who needed a night off.  Sherlock isn't sure if he was leaving his attraction out on purpose, or if Sherlock had just noticed it before John did.

He does that, sometimes.  They both agree that its quite annoying.

"Sentiment, little brother,"  Mycroft says, only it is not scathing like normal, it is soft and strong and wanting all at the same time, like he really truly does want to take this pain away.  "It'll kill you every time."

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on Instagram @olive.writes.fanfic


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